


The Other Foot

by Dana



Series: Patterns-verse [5]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gene!whump with comfort giving!Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might be going out on a limb here – no pun intended – and he wonders if it'll just be as easy as that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Foot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ferntree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferntree/gifts).



> Super old fic originally posted August 17th, 2014. I was going to do a thing with taking prompts and giving people fic for my birthday (it's an old hobbit thing, I guess), but I didn't finish all of them. This one was from **ferntree** , Gene!whump with comforting!Sam, and the story ended up fitting into the Patterns-verse.

It's a nice enough day – not quite as warm as Sam might have liked it, but the sun is out, shining brightly, and the breeze isn't too terribly cool. On the other hand, Gene is currently muttering under his breath, cursing up a storm, sounding like he'd like to punch some poor unsuspecting bastard's lights out, if only he had the chance.

Sam really doesn't want to give him the chance.

Gene's standing in the shadow of the Cortina, wrapped in camel hair and looking absolutely miserable (but equally as prone to sudden violent outbursts), doing his best to sort his crutches out. He’s managed to bang one against the door and has almost got the other one tangled up in his coat. He looks, in a word, unhappy, and it's been a long enough day that Sam doesn't even feel like teasing him for having got himself into this mess.

That, and he'd rather not be beaten bloody with a pair of crutches of all things.

So Sam nods, grits his teeth, flashes a grin that has Gene glaring right back at him, furiously so. Having been given express orders not to lend a hand, Sam stands with his arms folded across his chest, doing his best to comply – which, of course, amounts to him doing a whole lot of nothing. 'Right, yeah. Just so you know, helping you couldn't be further from my mind.'

'Stop going on about it,' Gene groans, and he goes about turning, awkward shuffling motions. Never has had crutches before, at least from Sam's reckoning. You use them once, using them again is rather like riding a bike after any number of years. You never quite forget.

Still, Sam really would like to do something more than just stand and watch, but he'd had to help Gene out of the Cortina and just doing that had only served to worsen his already foul mood. Well, he'd been rather quiet in the car, sitting in the back seat, almost morosely contemplative, stubbornly not saying a word, but Sam could still sense his irritation, the raw frustration, how utter silence somehow spoke more than any loud words. It was a sort of weightiness that pressed down on Sam and all the space about him, compounded somehow by the utter wrongness of him sitting in the driver's seat, because it just wasn't his place. It didn't help that Gene had insisted on going in to work once he'd been released from hospital, or that Sam had relented – but he was grouchy enough that Sam didn't really feel like pressing the issue. Maybe he should have, but...

He just hadn't felt like the argument was worth the words, or the arguing itself, or the possibility of assault by blunt force trauma. They'd only just come from hospital, after all, and didn't feel like going right back. This said, in general, they were much better in the mindless violence department these days.

A momentary flash of victory crosses Gene's face, having got his crutches in order, the plaster on his foot all too noticeable as he tries to hobble himself about, slowly turning himself around.

Gene's at least managed to move away from the Cortina, thump, scrape, over and again. Gene stops, makes a show of turning slowly, small, jerking movements, and scowls in Sam's direction, a dark and irritable glare. He's pouting, which on a better day would make Sam want to grin. But seeing as Gene has a pair of blunt objects on hand that could beat Sam bloody, plus the irritation to back it up, he keeps his face impassively calm instead.

Gene hobbles a bit forward, slamming the butt of one crutch down, hitting the front path with a hard clack. Sam's wound up tighter than a spring, because he has to be ready at any moment, really, he does. No telling when Gene might actually needs him, after all. Act like he does, anyhow.

'You sure you wouldn’t like a hand?' Sam can't help himself, watching Gene slowly make his way inside. He snaps his jaw shut, but already Gene is glaring at him, and with such intensity he feels like his head's about to burst into flame. 'Right. Never mind the offer. Consider it null and void.'

Gene growls, corner of his right eye twitching. Oh, definitely not good.

If Sam were to rate the situation on a scale of one to ten, it'd only be a five or maybe six, it isn't that bad at all. He really knows it isn't, because he's seen Gene wounded before, seriously injured, where he somehow kept his head on straight, cool and collected. As though what helped Sam keep it together was the fact that _Gene_ was keeping it together. The way that Gene saw it, in those situations that were so much worse than this one had any right to be, Sam was Gladys enough for the both of them. Nothing Gene had to add to it, after that.

So, having seen Gene at his worst – those nights where Sam's head won't stop thinking, remembering the bad things that had happened that could have been so much worse, because he had a way to dwell on things, like the way he was dwelling on this right now – _this_ really doesn't seem like anything at all.

Sam sighs, thinks back – not that he means to, to long patches of darkness, inky black nightmares, and Gene being the one who held him afterwards. Gene's more than just seen Sam at his worse, he's seen him broken down and reduced to nothing, and then having had to help Sam build himself back up again.

This is hardly the worst atrocity they've ever faced.

'Sod it all, Dorothy,' Gene snaps at him, glares daggers. 'Are you having fun then, standing there just as useless as a bloody door? Go unlock the ruddy thing already, unless you've better things to not do.'

Sam sighs, but Gene does have a point. 'Guv, you gotta stop acting like it's the end of the world,' Sam says, trying not to sigh once more, keeping his tone as light as possible. 

'Tyler, I think you need piss off. And don't you forget yourself and think I need any of your bloody help.'

Another sigh. 'Let me just go get the door.' He digs the keys out of his pocket – Gene's keys, not his own copy, the only way Gene trusts him with the Cortina is when he's otherwise unable to – and turns to walk up the path, stopping once said locked door stands before him.

The first time Gene invited Sam to his house, it had seemed surreal, an impossible place that, while Sam knew it existed, had seen its front hall the once, was hard to imagine other than that. It had been half-empty, Gene's missus having buggered off to who knows where. That had been a topic that Sam hadn't decided to broach, and somehow they never came to words over it. Gene's wife was gone. Sam hadn't meant to walk into the empty place she'd left behind, but things did have a way of just happening. Anyhow, Gene had been doing a rotten job of looking after himself, and if his wife wasn't cooking for him then Sam could only guess at what Gene had been feeding himself. Sam had brought groceries over eventually, and Gene had grouched at him because 'what took you so bloody long, Gladys?'. Made dinner for him that night, and the night after. Turned into a habit, one that Sam liked enough that he didn't want to break.

Wasn't Sam supposed to have come home with Gene, and stay there forever. He knows the offer had been made, but somehow the process of putting Sam back together after the... _incident_ with Richard Mackey hadn't run as smoothly as either of them had hoped. Because they were both stubborn pricks when they put their minds to it. Because the lease hadn't run out of Sam's flat yet, and then Sam had found himself wandering back, more and more, and Gene hadn't fussed, just let him do as he'd pleased. It was an argument or a dozen they should have had, but they never found the words for it. They found words for more than just plenty others, of course.

And maybe Sam was just still afraid. Not of shadows, now, or nightmares, but something small and inconsequential in comparison: maybe it was the commitment that he was worried might do him in.

Gene's voice snaps at him, stirring Sam from his thoughts. 'Don't just stand there, Sam. Open the sodding door, some of us here would like to sit down.' He spares a look at Gene, who's glaring at him, mouth tight with irritation, bags under his eyes.

'Right. Don't need my help, don't see why you couldn't have managed it yourself.'

Grouchy Gene is one thing. Grouchy Gene who's stubbornly resisted taking his painkillers and who had access to what amounted to a pair of very effective weapons? Right, Sam knows when well enough's enough. Anyhow, because he hears Gene's low growl (danger, _danger_ ), maybe Sam shouldn't have said that – it's been a proper trial today, trying not to say the wrong thing.

'What do you mean me to do, Tyler? You have the bloody keys.'

Ah, that is true. 'Sorry,' he mutters, like it's all his own fault. Maybe, this one, it is.

He pushes the key in, but the lock doesn't turn over, and he hears an exasperated sigh at his backside. 'Christ, Sam, you should know you have wiggle the bloody thing,' and Sam rolls his eyes, doing just that. The door clicks as it unlocks, and then he's pushing it open for him, moving out of the way before Gene, stomping and thumping along with the help of his crutches, knocks him down.

So, the first time he'd visited, it had seemed like an impossible place that couldn't exist, but now... 

Now, hearing the click of the lock as it gives, it's almost starting to feel like a home away from home, and it such a dangerous thing, really, for him to think that. He likes it though, and it can't be denied. Wouldn't if Gene asked him, but... not that Gene would ask him. Maybe Gene just assumes. Maybe Gene just understands. Maybe, because he's not big on girly emotions, not unless Sam's bean beaten down and reduced to a bloody pulp, Gene just doesn't care.

Gene clomps in first (which he does, resentfully so, or at least as well as a man on crutches can), with Sam shutting and locking the door behind him once they're both inside. Gene stops, standing there, leaning one crutch against the wall and leaning himself against the other. He sighs – deeply, wistfully – and he trembles, likely from the strain of keeping himself on his feet. Sam wishes Gene was in a better mood, because it would be so much easier to just tease him for this. After all, Gene wouldn't hesitate in teasing Sam. Never had, probably never would.

The urge to say something is building. Sam's going to open his mouth. Say what he needs to. And then Gene's going to murder him because Sam shouldn't have even gone there at all. Would be easy enough to solve, though, if CID didn't end up celebrating because Sam was suddenly out of their collective hair. Nice line of thought there, Sam, he reflects darkly. It's not that bad. None of it is, really. There are some things here he more than just doesn't hate, after all, and Sam's looking at one of them right now. Even if it's been a bloody bad day.

Well, Annie would miss him. So at least they wouldn't all be happy he was gone.

Not that Sam's worried. Gene would never hurt him that way.

Sam keeps an eye on Gene, just in case they're both so unlucky as to have a crutch give out on him, knowing he'd then have to catch that weight. He looks somewhat lost, standing now, and Sam flips the hallway light on, a grimace tugging at his lips. Gene cursed something, but it was low, and tired – being in pain, and being that irritable, had done a good job of wearing him down. He'd been doing an awful lot of it throughout the entire day, after all – the hospitals, the crutches, the fact that he insisted on going in to work. Sam had insisted that visiting CID was not a good idea, that they could look after themselves for at least one day, but Gene had been far more persistent. And so, in wearing Sam's defences down, Gene had got his own way. Not wanting to say ' _I told you so_ ', Sam's almost certain Gene hadn't actually been happy with what he got.

And as though Gene's mood hadn't been foul enough already, since the moment Sam had first spoken to him that morning, all those hours behind. Almost bleed out because he'd been stabbed in the gut, getting too much of his own blood on Sam in the process – no trouble at all, because his cynicism and sarcasm had been working double time that day. Break three toes? The way Gene has him looking at it, this is somehow the worst situation by far.

At least it's 1973 and not 2006, and the doctors hadn't been feeling malicious, because the cast on Gene's foot could have been pink. Not any sort of mild pink, either, the passive sort that Gene sometimes wear, that looks good on him, really, though Sam's never said as much (if the situation is right, he likes to make his actions speak louder than words – maybe Gene's never heard Sam tell him how fetching he is when he's wearing pink, but Gene certainly must have noticed Sam's interest when said shirt is involved, not even getting the green one involved). No, nothing that drastic, just off-white plaster where in future days Gene might have sported something absolutely atrocious, bright neon pink. The better to draw attention to it, really. Sam would never hear the end of that, nor would anyone else in the whole of bloody Manchester.

'Sodding hell – ' Gene grunts, slams the base of one crutch against the wall, as though to make a point. Sam doesn't move, fingers twitching as he keeps his arms folded tight across his chest instead, watching, back to the front door.

Not like he'll be hearing the end of it anyhow, but that certainly would have added to the situation. As though he needed a cast at all, but maybe if Gene hadn't been such a pain in the arse at the hospital, snapping and moaning and complaining at the doctors and the nurses and even that one poor man, just a patient himself, who Gene had threatened to give a right bollocksing to, and just because the man had limped by his bedside, had dared cast one look Gene's way.

Sam doesn't know what's more frustrating, the fact that Gene's managed to hurt himself, or the fact that Gene is being such an arse. Understandably an arse, however, which must be what makes it easier to bear. Somewhat easier, anyhow. Maybe because, no matter the pain Gene's being, somehow he thinks it could be much worse.

Still, It had been a nice enough day though, Gene's current situation notwithstanding. It had been a nice enough morning too, at least the start of it – then he'd got the call in the first place, the start of this all, Sam still half-asleep and Gene somewhat breathless on the other end. Sam hadn't been able to make out what Gene had been trying to tell him, and had hurried over as fast as he could, after dressing in a rush. What he found was Gene, on his floor beside his unmade bed, damp-faced from sweat and his toes – the big one and the next two, anyhow – all very swollen, and very darkly bruised. How long had he sat there before he'd decided on calling for help? Sam wouldn't doubt his own stubbornness, no matter what Gene might say on the matter (they were equally stubborn bastards, the way Sam looked at it). Gene, though, was something else completely, and...

Sam keeps an eye on Gene, watching him, as Gene tries to get himself out of his coat – a proper struggle, from the look of it, almost as bad as when he'd been tangling himself up with the crutches in the first place – with Gene cursing beneath this breath, steadily getting louder. It's a whole lot of bitter, teeth gnashing frustration, that specific sort of thing. Sam sighs, rolling his eyes.

Maybe he's asking for it, but he needs to do something. Before this turns bad or, worse than just that, _comically_ bad. So he knows what he has to say, to test the water, so to say.

Maybe, just maybe, enough is enough.

'Yes, Guv, I'd be happy to help you with that. Let me just give you a hand.'

But as he says that, Gene gives one small sigh – almost plaintive, really. 'Sam.'

As he does sometimes, going between one extreme and the other – not wanting help, sounding like he needs it desperately – Gene's not making any sense.

Sam blinks, and Gene looks back at him – gives a quiet huff, a quick jerk of his head as he nods. Sam smiles, can't help himself, because it's a moment of personal victory, it really is. He's done what he needed to, got Gene safely back home. And they are safe here – Gene doesn't have to put on any airs in regards to what Sam will do for him, not here. Gene smiles back, just a slight one, so very small. Still, it's there.

Because Gene's hurting, and he's not thinking straight, and obviously he knows there are some things he won't be able to do on his own. Things that Sam is going to have to help him with, whether Gene wants that help or not. He might be going out on a limb here – no pun intended – and he wonders if it'll just be as easy as that.

Sam does like being surprised.

He steps over, Gene leaning on the crutch, not saying a thing, and Sam peels the coat off him. He sighs softly, as Sam helps him – maybe wanting to say something, but keeping it to himself instead. He holds onto Gene's coat, feels the warmth of his body, leans close to press a kiss to his cheek. Gene blinks, surprised, eyes wide and open, and Sam's gaze gets caught up in his own. Then, with a smile, pulling himself away, he turns round, hangs Gene's coat up, shrugs out of his jacket as well. Tossing the keys down onto the little table beside the coat rack, he turns back to Gene. Reaches out to grab the crutch that was leaning against the wall, cautiously pressing it forward. Gene, with a loud, ragged sigh, immediately snatches it away, moving so fast Sam's hand seems to burn.

Not a word, after that. Gene's moving, clomping on into the living room, just the same as he'd done on entering the house. Gene's not exactly making it easy on him, but Sam knows it could be worse. Not that Gene ever really makes anything easy on him, and that thought makes Sam grin and shake his head. Just asks for it, doesn't he? He switches that light off, turns the overhead light on in the lounge, their progression through the house.

Gene's flopped down into his chair, has stretched his long legs out as much as he dare, with one crutch leaning against the sofa and the other lying flat on the ground. He gestures wearily with his hand as Sam follows him into the living room: 'Make yourself at home – you always do.'

'Painkillers?' Sam asks, switching the telly on just for sake of background noise. Something to break the monotony of the otherwise empty house. Gene makes a face at him, digs his prescription out of his front pocket, eyes narrowing as he glare at the offending thing. Holds it out on one hand, stretching his arm out with that dark look still settled on his face, offering the bottle to Sam.

'Have at it,' he quickly snaps.

Sam takes it, arching an eyebrow as he does, and turns and wanders off to the kitchen, a further progression of lights being switched on, as he reads the details on the label. Then he's having to shout back at Gene, not having considered that question before he'd first wandered off. 'What do you feel like eating, Gene? Says you shouldn't have this on an empty stomach.'

Gene grumbles, and Sam can hear it, the pain and the irritation. Maybe Gene's making such a deal out of something so relatively small, because... because? Sam doesn't actually know how to finish that thought.

'Whatever you feel like making, Marjorie, I don't bloody care.'

Sighing, Sam sets the bottle down on the counter, heads over to the fridge and opens it, giving it a proper once over. The bottles of beer that are set out in relatively neat order, and the general lack of anything leafy and green. But there's left overs from the night before, the lasagne that he'd cooked, that they'd been unable to finish. Gene had complimented him in his own abstract way – ' _probably shouldn't kill me, should it?_ ', he'd muttered, and then proceeded to clean off his plate – which Sam knew meant, in a word (or lack thereof), that Gene had enjoyed the meal. Not that you could always account for taste, when it came to the things that Gene was likely to eat – but he had been eating better now that Sam had a hand in it. Anyhow, the pasta had worked once, which meant that it should work twice. Sam pulls the covered platter out, and slides it onto the counter.

Of course, last night. Maybe if he'd listened to Gene and just stayed over, had stayed over (for a cuddle, at least, or maybe for sex – not that Gene was the sort for cuddles, but he was definitely into the sex) none of this would have happened. He uncovers the dish, thinks too much: about the week behind him, the last time he'd been to his flat for anything more than a change of clothes, the way it feels like his toothbrush has taken up permanent residence in the upstairs bathroom. As though he was taking up permanent residence in Gene's bed. More than anything else, he felt like he was imposing, imposing far more than Gene should have allowed. The fact that Gene allowed any of that at all... Gene hasn't actually asked him anything that complicated, like: you feel like moving in? He always complained about Sam's flat but then, so did Sam.

The last thing he expected, on arriving in 1973, was that he would eventually end up in a relationship with his less than subtle DCI. Of course, it was 1974 by the time any of that happened. But it's still a strange enough thought.

Gene's attitude on the entire subject was rather difficult for Sam to work through, or at least that's what hindsight has him thinking, not much of a surprise (Gene was good at throwing him for a loop). Still, while Gene had made a point of telling Sam he didn't need to leave, he hadn't stressed at Sam's decision to go on home: to that ' _bloody awful hole in the wall_ ', as Gene had put it. So Sam had.

Wishes he hadn't. Wishes that, when Gene had finally made the proper offer, Sam had taken him up on it – come to Gene's house, and just let it be.

He sets the oven to a low enough heat and puts the pan in – meat lasagne, because Gene would have complained if it had been anything else, with just enough extra vegetables included to keep himself happy (plus garlic bread, of which they'd both partaken, and a salad for himself, which had Gene calling him a rabbit of all things) – and Sam's mind keeps on wandering, back to that very morning, when all of this began.

'What exactly happened here, Guv?'

He made out ' _sodding_ ' and ' _bloody rim of the bathtub_ ' but between that and the nearly constant cursing, Sam had to piece the rest of it together (good thing he was a detective, right?): that Gene had ended up having a run-in with the side of his bathtub, perhaps having tried exiting in too much of a hurry after his shower was over and then finding, when trying to put proper pressure down on his foot again, he'd just thought it was a bit (a lot) of swelling on top of the bruising but now he's thinking he'd gone and broken more than just one of his toes. Thinking about it, Sam flexed the fingers of his left hand almost reflexively, not quite thinking about it, and rubbed at it with his right. It didn't bring back bad memories, but it did remind him of an almost endless itch, the twitch and shift of mending bone.

'And if you think you're going to wiggle them and see if they're really that badly hurt, then I'm going to break you. Wiggled them myself, or at least I tried, and that didn't work. Somehow managed to break the bloody things, Sam.' He sounded a bit helpless, at that, like some sort of impossible thing had occurred, and more importantly than that, something had switched off that left him in this strangely vulnerable situation, and that he was showing this side of himself to _Sam_.

A side that seemed defenceless, completely breakable, a part of Gene Hunt that had been stripped back to reveal some unknown truth beneath, a truth that Sam wasn't quite sure he knew how to handle. Gene in pain kept his mouth shut, didn't want Sam fussing over him, didn't need the mollycoddling, kept the truth of it to himself. And this... open. Honest. Of course Gene trusted him – they'd worked on that, got it out into the open, and were mostly better with it, trust and communication being a two way thing – but this still seemed like a whole lot to take in.

The show didn't last, though. Because then Gene was back to scowling, as though that momentary weakness had been well enough. Bad enough he was hurt at all – worse off for having shown that sort of weakness in front of _Sam_. Oh, and it was almost silly, because Gene had seen Sam in a state that was far worse.

Sam huffed, had wondered what the bathtub could have possibly done to deserve a kick like that – but then he was helping Gene up off the floor, as Gene blustered and cursed and in general did a whole lot of complaining. As Sam tried to figure out what he'd say once he made his way into work. If Gene would even let him go into work.

'We'll tell CID you had a run in with a crim, not that your bathtub is out to get you – how does that sound?'

Gene, overreaching, swung a lazy punch at him and missed completely, hissing when he started to topple them both over. Sam caught him, a moment of strain as he helped keep him upright, and in doing so kept them both on their feet. Gene gave an unhappy rumble at his side.

'Right merciful of you, Tyler,' he snapped, irritable, which was understandable, seeing as he was in pain. 'Keeping my dignity in mind, you clever girl. Ta.'

Sam snorted, shaking his head. 'Take anything for it yet, Guv?'

'Bit of paracetamol. Probably too much, really. I had to drag myself up off the bleeding floor.'

He'd managed to get himself dressed after his little mishap, or mostly so, all but his suit jacket (and he'd only managed to get on one of his shoes). That of course only seemed to add further explanation to that certain amount of deep and very understandable irritation that clung to everything Gene did and said. Complaining when Sam moved too fast, when Sam didn't move fast enough. When he bumped something, when Gene ended up wincing and cursing, the fact that he had to hobble along at all. All with Sam at his side, all his strength exerted in keeping his Guv upright. Making sure he didn't stumble and drag them both to the bottom of the stairs. They really didn't need to end up breaking their necks.

The fact that, as Sam pulled Gene's coat down off the rack, he knew what was coming next, and he knew that Gene wouldn't be happy. Gene grumbled as Sam dug around for the keys. 'You know you can't drive with your foot in that state,' he'd said, trying to sound reasonable.

'Course I can't, you ruddy nonce. I can see that. Plain as day and bloody crystal clear.' Ah, at least Gene was feeling reasonable as well.

Sam nodded, attempting a smile. 'Just get you to hospital and they can sort you out. I'm sure you'll be in and out before you know it. Broken toes aren't exactly the most – I mean.' Sam cleared his throat. He didn't need to downplay what Gene was feeling, did he? 'Be good as new in no time at all.'

'Out in two winks,' Gene grumbled. 'Bloody hell Gladys, I'm not made of glass.'

'Yes, but if you fall then I fall and I'd rather that not happen. Give your neighbours too much to talk about, yeah? So just lean on me, Gene. I've got you.'

'Don't you though,' Gene muttered, and if Sam was thinking straight at all, it sounded like Gene had smiled. 'Picture of courtesy, that's you.' Sam looked sideways at Gene, shoulder around him for support, but Gene was looking out ahead, face a solidly impassive mask. Of course Gene should know Sam would be there for him, if only because the fact they were friends. Co-workers. Esteemed colleague, Gene had called him once, and seeing as they hardly knew each other time, Sam had always known that he had been taking the piss. More than that though, really. Lover was such an impossibly unfitting word.

Anyhow, it wasn't like – 'Sam?'

Sam blinks, comes back to himself, the smell of the warming food, the sharp tang of the tomato sauce, filling his nose. 'Almost finished here, Gene – what do you need?' He wipes off his hands, goes over to look out into the living room. 'Maybe something to drink? It'll have to be tea, or water, or milk, I’m afraid. Can't go mixing alcohol with narcotics.'

Gene huffs. 'Pick a thing and surprise me, Samantha.'

Sam grins, leaning against the door. 'Right. Anything else I can get you?'

'Yes. No.' Gene grimaces, tries to shift in his chair, making it squeak its frustrations, as well as he can anyhow, so not as well as he'd like. 'Just needed to have a look at your pretty face.'

Sam pushes away from the door. 'Gene, if there's anything you need...'

Gene doesn't answer him, grimaces, then sighs.

'Feel bloody useless, is all,' he mutters, and Sam goes over to his chair, sits down on the arm of it, and (mostly because he can, no matter how strange a gesture it might still seem, that Gene might not appreciate it in his current situation) he presses a kiss to Gene's forehead, running his fingers back through Gene's hair. He hesitates – because he needs to see how Gene's going to react – and when Gene sighs, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, Sam can't help but smile. 'Thought going into work was a good idea, but it turns out I was sorely mistaken. Sure you're happy to hear that though, seeing as you knew it all along.'

'Gene, it's not as easy as I'm right and you're wrong.'

'But you humoured me by letting me go in. Should have just made me come home.'

'Not much I can make you do, Guv. Bloody hell, do I ever try.'

That makes Gene's expression soften, at least for a moment. 'Just making it worth your while, is all. Know how you get your jollies, making sure you do a thing by the book. Can't be too easy on you.' Anyhow, it's not like Gene hasn't made changes for Sam, accommodations, because it's been three months now since Sam saw him with his last cigarette, quitting for some other reason than Sam's near constant nagging that the things might kill him one day. It hadn't been easy, but Gene had stuck to it – unstoppable, that was what he was.

'Course not. Wouldn't expect anything else.'

His head's still leaned back, but his eyes are open now, as though to get a good look at Sam's face – he grimaces, but doesn't say anything, and Sam leans down, kisses his cheek and then his jaw, and then finally his lips. Gene sighs, grumbles quietly, and Sam leans back, pats Gene's arm. He doesn't mean to let his hand linger that long, but then Gene's moving his arm over, covering Sam's hand with his own.

'Let me go plate this up. You're getting milk, since I don't have time to make tea.'

'Whatever you feel like, Sam.' Gene sighs, shutting his eyes. At least he isn't going on about what a good wife Sam makes. Not that Gene speaks of her often, the ex-Mrs Hunt, but for as far as Sam can tell, he's (thankfully) nothing at all like Gene's ex-wife. Other than his propensity for cooking Gene meals, that is – and, because of what happens afterwards, Sam wonders if Gene was also so agreeable when it came to lending a hand with the washing up. Sam hadn't even nagged him as much as he might've.

So, as Gene moves his hand, Sam is able to find his legs and stand back up, turning to head back into the kitchen. He does up two plates, plus two glasses of milk that he sets on two matching trays, cutlery and all. He balances that all, returning to the living room, where Gene is still slumped in his chair, his eyes closed.

'Gene?' he says, and one eye cracks open, and then the other. Gene tries to pull himself up into a better position to sit and eat, and he only just manages it, grunting in his exertion. Sam puts his tray down on the coffee table, then Gene's down over his lap. 'Er, be right back.' He'd forgotten the painkillers in the kitchen, so he runs and grabs them and is back at Gene's side within seconds, unscrewing the top and taking out one of the off-white pills. He sets it down beside Gene's glass, and pops the top back on.

'Right then. Eat first, then take that,' he snaps off, in his best 'I'm-actually-a-DCI' voice, and Gene doesn't even bat an eyelash in concern. 'If it's not enough you can have some more paracetamol as well.'

'Ta, Sam,' Gene mumblers, looking down at his food, and Sam puts the bottle down on the coffee table and picks up his own tray, sitting down on the sofa so he's able to eat while he keeps an eye on Gene. Gene, who's poking at the lasagne with his fork, moving it about on his plate, but not actually doing any eating.

'S'not gonna finish itself, Guv,' Sam says, and Gene sighs.

'Suppose not. Couldn't be that lucky.'

'Wasn't that bad a meal, last we had it.'

'Right, last bloody night.'

Gene's face, exhausted, slips back to its mask of impassiveness. Sam sighs, shifting slightly, worrying at his lower lip. Then, sighing once more, Sam finds he can still speak: 'Look, Gene, I'm sorry – '

'Oi, don't you even start at it, Tyler,' Gene snaps, and he stabs at a bit of noodle rather viciously. 'It's me own sodding fault, and I doubt your having stayed overnight would 'ave kept it from happening. Maybe we'd both have ended up falling instead. And then who'd we have to take care of the both of us? Well, I suppose Cartwright wouldn't mind, but that's not the bloody point.'

'Right, right,' Sam sighs, shaking his head. Gene, calm now, sighs as well and then starts on his food, but he doesn't seem to have anything else to add, so they continue on in silence, eating the reheated meal. Even with the telly on to block it all out, the clink of a fork scraping across a plate, the loud gulp of something swallowed down, it's all a bit too loud.

And then, eventually, it's sitting easily enough in Sam's belly, and Gene's finished as well. He stares across the stretch of space that separates him from Gene, as Gene picks the pill up, scowls down at it, and pops it into his mouth. He grimaces, grabs up his glass, and washes his medication down with the remainder of his milk, smacking his lips and then giving a loud sigh. The grimace becomes a dark glower as he plops the glass down with a heavy thunk, glaring at nothing in particular, as though he's only doing so to show that he can.

'There – happy now, ya great big girl? Taken me medicine like a good boy ought to.'

Sam rolls his eyes, shaking his head. 'Not meant to make me feel any better, Guv. You're the one who'll be feeling the effects of it – soon enough, I'm guessing. Let me tidy up and you can think about us getting you upstairs.'

Gene grimaces, nods. 'Maybe I'll just kip on the sofa. You take up too much room anyhow, hardly enough space for the both of us, now is there?'

Sam grins, just a little bit. He'd got so used to sleeping on a bed that was too small – he hadn't been much of a back sleeper, not before he'd come to 1973. He almost thought it had to be some sort of subconscious connection to the future bleeding back, at least in relation to his presence in a hospital bed. Now, though... Apparently Gene's bed makes him happily sprawl. 'Maybe we need a bigger bed.'

Gene opens his mouth to answer, closes it, looks quietly contemplative. 'Maybe we do,' he says at length, eyes sparking at the thought, and Sam's grin widens, causing his cheeks to ache. 'But that means I need a second body to help occupy it – how does that sound?'

'I...' Sam's mouth goes dry. It really must get to him, and how bloody silly is that, commitment – Gene's trust, Gene's heart – terrifies him this way. 'I'll keep it in mind.'

One blink of his eyes, and Gene nods at him – and Sam wonders how lucky he is, how long he might end up making Gene wait. He stops that line of thought, does a bit of rearranging as he stacks their trays on top of each other, grabs up his own glass and sets it beside Gene's, and then carts that all into the kitchen. It's getting a bit warm so he sets that all down on the counter, cursing under his breath at the realisation he'd left the oven on, turns the dial over, switching it off. He's got to the point where he's running water to do the washing up, having rinsed the dishes off, when Gene's voice drifts at him from the living room: 'Sam?'

So he shuts the tap off, wipes his hands off on a cloth and walks back over to the door, looking out into the living room. 'Yeah?'

'Worry about that in the morning, Gladys,' Gene huffs. 'Feel about ready to climb into bed, and we've a mountain to climb before that.'

Sam nods, slowly. 'Guessing that means you're not planning to kip on the sofa?'

Gene shakes his head, grimacing faintly. 'Clever boy, no wonder you made Detective Inspector. It's me bed or nowt at all.'

Sam sighs, trying to keep himself from grinning too broadly. 'Right. I understand.'

Gene grimaces, but then his expression mellows, seems to soften. 'And don't you think I'd kick your scrawny arse out of said bed, no matter the fact you take up too much sodding room. You're foul enough in the morning when you've had a fair night's rest, I'd not inflict that bloody sofa on my worst enemy's back, let alone yours.'

Feeling strangely mollified, Sam keeps on grinning – a bit more widely now. 'Thank you, Guv.'

Gene tries to hoist himself up into a better sitting position, brow furrowing as he does, giving a small, exhausted huff. 'Gonna need a hand here, Tyler,' he mutters, and Sam sighs, somewhat exasperated, only mildly so, smiling bemusedly down at Gene regardless.

'Just needed to ask,' he says back at Gene, who rolls his eyes as Sam gathers up the crutches, offering them over. One by one Gene grips them, stuck between awkwardly amused and displeased, rolling his eyes even as he stares up at Sam.

'Still not made of glass, you daft sod.' He leaves it at that.

'Right.' Sam grins a bit more. 'Course you're not. Brace yourself, Gene. Gonna just...'

It takes a bit of shifting, getting his arm around Gene's shoulder and beneath his arm, hoisting him to his feet and giving him enough time to straighten his crutches so he doesn't put too much pressure down on his injured foot. 'Don't think this is going to work,' Gene mutters, a moment after, and then he's tossing one crutch back down to bounce onto the sofa.

'Now why'd – '

'So I don't clomp on your foot when you drag me upstairs. Time's a wasting, Sammy-boy. Get a move on, yeah? Sometime today, I bloody well hope.' He gives an exhausted sigh.

Sam nods, tries not sigh right back at him, but he knows that Gene has a point, not that Sam feels like letting him know. It's much easier to steer Gene towards the stairs with him just leaning on the one crutch, still hobbling along, the second would have only got in the way. It's a slow process, but any progress made is good progress, forward momentum, that sort of thing, and it isn't nearly as awkward as it had been that morning, on the way down.

'Loo,' Gene mumbles, once they hit the second floor.

'You need – '

'I'll be quite alright on me own, Marjorie, but thanks for your consideration.' Sam huffs a small laugh. He's pretty sure Gene's gone through every girly name in his book at this point, and now he's begun cycling through them again.

'Right, of course.'

They pass the guest room, the linen closet, with the bathroom door on the left side of the hall. Sam lets go of Gene, slowly, and Gene clomps on into the little room. The door swings shut behind him, rather heavily, likely as Gene balances himself against the wall and knocks the bottom of his crutch against it.

Sam hovers outside in the hallway, listening for anything that might suggest Gene would need him to – what? Come to his rescue? – a thought which Sam finds mildly amusing, that Gene would ever need to be rescued. Especially from a situation as relatively innocuous as this. A groan of pain, the sound of Sam's name, _anything_. Because Gene _has_ needed rescuing, before, he's seen Gene at his best, at his worst, though sometimes it's hard to actually differentiate between the two. He's seen Gene at death's door, and Gene's seen Sam... Sam screws his eyes shut, sighs, derailing the train of his thoughts, the ones that had been in the midst of an awful, lingering crash.

So, the sound of water, the toilet flushing, and more water – a good deal more water, he really needs to get Gene into the habit of not leaving the tap on for as long as he does – and then the crutch bangs against the door, and Gene's easing it open. His hair's a bit damp, he must have washed his face off, ran a damp cloth over his hair, and as Sam helps him out the door, as he puts his arm around Gene's shoulder to steady him, he gets hit with Gene's suddenly minty fresh breath.

Sam grins. 'You used my toothpaste.'

'My mistake,' Gene mutters. 'Or maybe it's yours – shouldn't have left it in my sodding bathroom, should you have? Hurry on, Samantha, starting to feel a bit. Ergh.' Gene wobbles against him. 'Need to lie down.'

'Paracetamol?'

'Took meself a dose of it. Should be fine.'

'Alright, good. Pyjamas, yes or no?'

'Don't feel like exerting the sodding energy, clothes'll do fine.'

The master bedroom's the next door, and Sam hurries Gene on as well as he can, which in Gene's state doesn't amount to much. The bed's still unmade, the room half-empty as it's always been, since Gene's wife went off on her own. There's a chill in the air, and Gene's pyjamas are on the ground. Sam helps him round the bed, because the far side is _Gene's_ side of the bed. Not that Sam ever calls it anything else but _Gene's bed_ , the side closest the door has come to be his own. The fact that the entirety of it could have been _their_ own.

Still, might just need a bigger one, though. Really.

Gene's starting to look a bit groggy, sitting on the side of the bed. Sam drops down onto one knee, pulls the shoe off Gene's good foot, to which he gets a sleepy mumble, a proper tangle of of amusement and resentment warring across Gene's face, as well as the slow blink of his wide, tired eyes. 'Look good down there,' Gene comments, sounding that much closer to being asleep.

Sam rolls his eyes, puts the shoe to the side, beside the other loafer Gene hadn't been able to wear that morning, won't be wearing for maybe the next couple of weeks.

'Let me just get you tucked in then, yeah? You need anything in the night, you just let me know.'

Gene rolls his eyes at him, pouting, but he's agreeable enough as the grogginess grows, and Sam gets him to lie down, gets him covered (all but his cast-covered foot, which he props a pillow beneath, letting Gene grumble about ' _bloody coming over all Dorothy_ ' in the full knowledge that it's fond grumbling), and he didn't expect it to be that easy, because Gene seems to have gone out like a light.

Shaking his head, Sam crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at Gene, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathes in and out. There was a time when he thought Gene was some sort of nightmare, something to fight against, something that needed to be excised, but now...? Now, other than the fact that they do still fight, that there are still some days they still don't see eye to eye, it's funny to think they're still the same as ever, if only different. Now, looking down at him, knowing how much Gene trusts him (and on matters far more important than this, something that has been broken down and then forged anew), Sam's almost certain he knows what he came back for.

No, absolutely positive, in fact. Can't say he regrets it, the jump – there are things he does regret, ones he'd rather not focus on, mostly how he had, in making that jump, treated his mum. Sometimes Sam's not sure what this world represents, anymore than he knew what it meant before, but he's making accommodations himself, and mostly, it fits. He hopes that, in time, she'll be able to understand. But he had made a promise, and that had driven him to the ends of himself.

And then some things had worked out, some others hadn't, and then something else had managed to slot itself into place. No, he may have some regrets, but overall, he knows he's made the right choice.

Sam heads back to the bathroom, uses the loo. He washes his hands afterwards, his face as well, and then cleans his teeth – all very automatic motions, really. He toes his boots off once he's back inside Gene's bedroom, and he flips off the light before he makes his way over to the bed. A soft snore greets him, as he pulls the duvet back, and he grins at Gene in the darkness.

Maybe it feels like more than just a second home, but he's not sure he'd ever be able to say that.

'See? You _do_ snore.'

So he slides into bed, pulls the cover up over him as he curls on his side, staring for a long time into the empty darkness. Looking at nothing, listening to everything, feeling the shift of the bed as Gene moves slightly in his sleep. Eventually, though, Sam's off to sleep as well, comfortable darkness pulling him down.

–

'Sam.'

Sam blinks, and for one moment, he feels like he must be dreaming – he's warm and he's content, and he hasn't felt this happy in a very long time. Is that why he thinks it's a dream? Because he couldn't possibly be this happy, not really, could he?

'Bloody hell, Sam, you sodding great girl. Not that I mind being your pillow, but I need to use the loo – '

Sam blinks, and blinks again, and he's waking, slowly. He's still curled on his side, and he's still warm, but his head is resting against something that is most decidedly not a pillow. Something that's warm as well as solid, a thumping deep inside it that's sounding against his ear. A moment of disorientation later – the fog in his mind clearing, like mist burning off in the heat of the morning sun – he realises it's the beat of Gene's heart he hears, pressed close.

'I want to stay,' he mumbles, still drifting.

'Never told you to leave,' Gene answers in return. 'You want to stay, then stay, Sam – you know I'll have you, you bloody daft bastard.'

Just one more moment later, and Sam's jerking back, sitting up, gone wide eyed in the dim of the grey morning gloom, properly waking up, somewhat in shock. Having realised he was using Gene as some sort of pillow. Heart pounding hard in his chest. Not fear, a sort of happy relief that's tangling with the mass of his worry. Hoping he hasn't managed to cause Gene any pain.

'Shit, Gene, sorry – I haven't hurt you, have I?'

Gene rolls his eyes – as if he had, and Gene couldn't have taken it. 'Just fetch me the crutch, Gladys. That's a good love.'

Sam tries to look stern – tries, and fails, and his mouth twitches as he tries not to smile. 'Glad you don't mind it then. I'll make sure to take advantage of that as often as I can.'

'Why not? Seeing as you'll have plenty of time.'

And Sam, rather stupidly, he admits, laughs out loud.

Gene huffs, doesn't bother answering him, but there's light enough in his eyes that he seems to be amused. At this point, Sam's rolled out of bed and made it to the far side, has picked up the crutch and leaned it against the bedside table. Gene's in the process of sitting up, straining and gritting his teeth as he can. 'Once you're up I'll head downstairs. Someone's getting breakfast in bed.'

'Keep on spoiling me like that...' Gene mutters, but his voice trails off, smirking. 'You're really staying.'

'Yeah, and not just home with you from work.' Gene said the right thing, at the right moment, and maybe that's all Sam needed to make up his mind – and at least right now, Sam doesn't mind. They don't always have to butt heads.

Sam rolls his eyes right back at him, smiles and offers Gene his hand.

–

He does a full fry-up, tea as well, and lugs the tray upstairs. Gene's back in bed, uncovered, staring across the room at him. 'Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long,' he says, tilting his head as he gives a small smile.

'Bloody hell, Dorothy,' Gene mutters, but it's fondly, and he shrugs, eyes flitting between the tray and Sam. Sam notes he'd got his foot back up onto the pillow, not that he'd been unable to do that on his own, but seeing as Sam had headed downstairs, and Gene the other way... well, it's good to see him back in place. 'Not at all. Think I'm near due for another dose of me pills though – ah, ta.'

There's one sitting beside Gene's mug of tea, plus two paracetamol, if needed. 'Think of everything, don't you? Don't always mind if when you do too much of that, you know. Aren't you eating?'

'Found some cereal, and the milk's near off, so I finished the bottle.' He'd brought two mugs of tea though, and he plucks his up off Gene's tray, at least once he's tucked himself back into bed. Well, once he's sitting beside Gene, amidst the pillows. 'Called the station, let them know we'll not be coming in.'

'Can imagine their relief at that.'

'Yes, well, you were being a right pain in the arse, but it's understandable. Anyhow, it's better to stay off your feet. I'll go round CID and get the files for the Jenkins case, though, just so we can have something to work on. D'you like sound of that?'

'Minding me _and_ making sure I've plenty to keep meself entertained.'

'Yes, well, wouldn't want you getting too bored.'

'Bored. Board games. I've board games. Could maybe play a bit of Monopoly, if you're feeling up to it.'

'Could be fun. Could murder each other because we keep cock blocking each other from getting the best properties, but it could still be fun.'

'… you sure that the term you meant to use, Gladys?'

'I – ' Sam blinks, feels heat creeping up along his beck, burning along his cheeks. 'Yeah. You know. You're probably right. Don't think I mind too much though. Do you?'

Gene huffs a little, closing his eyes, leaning his head back. 'Can't say that I do.'

–

'Anyhow,' Sam says, fifteen or so minutes later – once Gene has cleared his plate, once Sam's done away with the try, once Gene's taken his medication and settled back onto the pillows, seemingly at rest. 'Once you're feeling better, sure there are plenty of other things we could do. Or that I could do. For you.'

'Should start by going round CID,' Gene mutters, blinking his eyes rapidly, trying to keep them open. Not doing too good a job of that, though.

'Yeah, suppose I should. Won't be long, Gene.' He leans over, kisses Gene on the cheek, lingers, before sliding out of bed.

–

Updates are demanded, which he gives, and no one sniggers at Gene's condition – mostly because they fear for their bollocks, and rightly so. Sam gathers up the case files he'd wanted, tells Annie to keep watch on the children, grins at her smirk and the exaggerated roll of her eyes.

'Hoping for a miracle, aren't you?' But she's grinning, and she's teasing him, so he grins right back.

'If there's anybody here who can be in charge without looking it, I've faith it's you. Good luck.'

She's smiling now, pink-cheeked. 'I'm not the one who has to deal with the Guv.'

–

Gene's still sleeping when Sam comes back, when he deposits the file down onto the little table on his side of the bed, followed by Sam's overnight bag, stuffed neatly with folded clothes. There's no telling how long he'll be here, and Gene _had_ told him to make himself at home.

He's taking his boots off once more, and when he looks back to the bed, he sees that Gene's awake. Just lying there, staring at him, eyes half-lidded. A bit too tired still, maybe, but there's enough awareness in Gene's eyes for Sam to know he's coming properly awake.

'Have a good kip?'

Gene nods. 'Good enough. CID still in one piece?'

'Annie'll have her hands full with that lot.'

'Sure she can manage it though.' Gene blinks, slowly, gaze downcast. 'She always does.'

'How you feeling?'

'Groggy, mostly. Bit like I'm floating. Foot still hurts, but I don't really mind.'

'Ah, good. Couldn't ask for much more.'

Gene harrumphs quietly, doesn't open his eyes.

'Need a shower,' he mutters.

'Gonna need more than a hand with that, I think. You'll need to keep your cast dry, so – '

'Sticky wrap, I'm sure.'

'And plenty of it. A bin bag, maybe? And some duct tape... would go a long away.'

Gene grumbles, still doesn't open his eyes.

Sam has sat down on the edge of Gene's side of the bed, looking down at him. It's funny, this entire situation, really, and Sam's still not sure how any of it happened. Well. It's clear enough how Gene hurt himself in the first place, it's the rest that's puzzling Sam: the fussing over Gene, Gene letting him fuss over him, and not being a pain about it in return, the way that Sam sometimes was.

'Still don't know what made you call _me_.' He mutters it before he really knows he'd spoken at all. Gene blinks – it's nearly audible, and Sam looks down at him, staring right back. 'What?'

Gene's eyes are wide now, as though he's coming more and more awake. He shakes his head against the pillow, and Sam purses his lips in thought – doesn't know what Gene might be getting at.

'You just don't see it, do you? Twonk.'

Sam rolls his eyes, pats Gene's hand. 'Course I don't, Guv. Otherwise I wouldn't have said anything at all.'

Gene just keeps on staring, and Sam shifts, because the weight of Gene's gaze presses against him, makes him feel uncomfortable, like it's going right through him. Makes him feel put on the spot. 'What?' 

He expects Gene to dodge him, that if he speaks at all, he won't be telling the truth. What he gets is the steady grip of Gene's gaze, holding him, and then Gene's mouth is moving, he's talking, and Sam's attention is caught on each word. 'Called you cause I didn't want anyone else seeing me like that, you nonce. You're the only one who _should_ see me like that. Don't you understand?' Then, he swallows slowly, shakes his head, gaze grown distant. 'Something else that comes down to trust.'

Oh. Well, of course. That makes sense. Such a simple thing, really. Sam blinks, blinks again, and then he's smiling, wide and bright, and though he'll never be able to stop. Funny how that makes Gene smile back at him, he's taken the news so well, and Sam nods. 'Yeah. I understand. Gene, I – '

A loud exhale, and Gene grimaces, opens his mouth a little like there's more he means to say. Shuts his mouth, pouts and then sighs, lets the moment carry on. 'Suppose I ought to get it all out.'

'What could you possibly add?'

Gene's attention snaps back onto him, and Sam hesitates, biting his lip. 'Right. Sorry.'

'No, no, no.' And then Gene looks like he's searching for something, and he opens and closes his mouth so many times Sam ends up losing count, maybe because Gene's having trouble finding the right words. Then he growls a little, sighs as well. What he ends up saying comes out on a ragged breath, words pressed too close. It's all run together and Sam doesn't actually know what Gene's said at first, and then on second which causes the other man to heave a loud sigh – Sam's lack of understanding was just that obvious – rolling his eyes back so far Sam wonders if they'll ever come back down.

'Christ help me.'

A faint grin, and Sam repositions himself on the side of Gene's bed, leaning down slightly, stroking his fingers back through Gene's hair (Gene grumbles at that, but doesn't pull away). 'Just me right now, sorry about that.'

Gene snorts, and then he's looking Sam straight on, and as he does something brightens his eyes. Whatever it is, it puts a damper on the painkillers and the general sense of humiliation that had stalked him throughout this entire situation.

'What I said was: I'm sorry, Sam. Thank you for putting up with me. Hardly at me best.' He enunciates properly, stretching the words out carefully, the way he would if trying to act like he was sober when he was in fact well and truly blaggered. And then gives a small huff, scowling. 'Not repeating myself again, so I hope you had your listening cap on, you daft sod.'

'I. Yes. Yes, I heard you.' Sam can't help himself, feels the corner of his mouth twitching, giving in, feels his mouth reshape itself into a grin. 'Loud and clear.'

At that, Sam reaches up with one hand, traces the curve of Gene's cheek with the tips of his fingers, slowly, like he's worried Gene might up and disappear, like he's said something that just can't be and now that he has, he'll be unmade. Gene gives a little sigh, closing his eyes and pushing his cheek against Sam's hand, as contented looking as some sort of happy cat. His breathing softens, as though he might be slipping to sleep, but just as Sam thinks that, Gene's eyes snap back open, blinking quickly. Sometimes he thinks he could lose himself in the light in Gene's eyes, only then he remembers, no, he's already well and truly lost.

'Don't know why I complain so much,' Gene mutters, quiet, a stumble of words, as though he's beginning to drift off. 'You've had it much worse off.'

'Yeah, well, it's all relative, Gene, and...'

'Don't leave me,' Gene says, interrupting him. He doesn't beg, he doesn't plead, because he isn't that sort of man, but it's a simple enough statement and yet it's still one that manages to stab Sam in the heart. He's saying one thing and meaning one hundred more, something Sam is perfectly aware of. As though Gene is sometimes far too easy to read, if still a very complicated book.

Sam nods, grinning once more, he can't help himself, not that he ever can. Doesn’t need Gene calling him a soppy Dorothy on top of everything else. 'Said I was staying, Gene. Pretty sure that means you're stuck with me forever.'

'Yeah... suppose I am,' and maybe Sam's just tired too, but he knows joy when he sees it, something that's too much of a rarity, at least when it comes to shining on Gene's face.

Sam tilts his head to the side, rubs at his cheek. 'Sure you'll make the best of it.' Absently, reaches out to brush his fingers across Gene's lips, watching his eyes fluttering, struggling to stay open.

'Yeah,' a faint smile. 'That I will.'

And then, with a small, weary sigh, Gene closes his eyes, and settles back to sleep.

Sam leans his head back, closes his eyes as well. Has he really made up his mind, is it really just as simple as that? He feels his smile growing, can't be contained. Yes, and yes – after all, Gene had told him to make himself at home.


End file.
